


the memory of a kiss

by Pure_Anon



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Based off of Jason Michael Evans' Gleb, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Courtly Love, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining, Unrequited Love, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pure_Anon/pseuds/Pure_Anon
Summary: He kisses her hand.Or, Gleb in the immediate aftermath of his failed mission.
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	the memory of a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely based off of Jason Michael Evans’ portrayal of Gleb. Gleb’s thoughts are my own, but his actions in this fic are all actions Jason did in the show. I cannot overstate how much I love Jason’s portrayal of Gleb. It is very apparent when watching his take how much he loves the character and how much thought he put into the role. I am still overcome by the hand kiss, because I have thought that Gleb should have done that from the moment I first became interested in his character, so to see that play out on stage was truly something special.

He kisses her hand.

It is selfish for him to do so. He’s _never_ deserved to touch her — but certainly not now, not mere moments after almost pressing a gun to her trembling throat. He shouldn’t be allowed to sully her with his touch. And yet, he can’t seem to stop himself from crumbling into her palm.

He expects her to pull away. He expects her to draw back with a shocked gasp, expects her to slap him, expects her to give him the punishment he deserves.

But she doesn’t.

Anya doesn’t pull away, and he can’t repress the choked sob that fights its way out of his throat as he presses a kiss to her palm.

She can’t _want_ his touch, not now, not after everything, but she’s allowed him this last liberty, and he doesn’t _understand._ There’s no reason for her to do so, unless —

 _Pity._ Like giving a condemned man a last sip of water.

An eternity ago he had dreamed of having a life with her. Now, he will settle for the heat of her hand beneath his lips. 

She stands tall above him as he draws back, still on his knees, and his breath catches in his throat. She looks more regal than ever, and his weak heart _aches._

“I believe you are Anastasia,” he finally gasps, and it’s true, even if he will always think of her first as _Anya_ , as the street sweeper with hair like sunshine and eyes like sky that he’d pulled from the snow so long ago.

He has to memorize her, he realizes, because this is the last time they will ever meet. He will never see her again, and if he focuses on _that_ he might break, so he focuses on her as he rises — on the scar at her temple, on the tilt of her nose, on the shade of those eyes he is seeing for the last time. There’s not enough _time_ , not enough to burn the image of her into his heart, but he must try. 

“What will you tell them?” she asks.

“That I was not my father’s son after all,” he responds, because what more can he say? She must know he isn’t making it out alive.

He’s still grasping her hand, he realizes. He pulls away from her, because he’s too close, far too close for his foolish heart to take. He needs to put distance between them, to become the stoic officer again, though he’s becoming more and more certain he’s forgotten how to be him.

“Long life, comrade,” he says as he offers his hand again, and he’s half-surprised when she takes it. He holds it a fraction of a second too long before he pulls away, and it’s _wrong_ of him, but he’s not strong enough to pull away sooner. 

It is shameful of him, but he looks back before he leaves the room, and her arm —

Her arm had been extended towards him; it had dropped just after he turned around, and it is this that nearly breaks him.

It is pity — it must be, because she does not, cannot _want_ him with her. It would be selfish of him to stay, to inflict himself upon someone who does not want him, not really. He does not trust himself to speak, not when she’s looking at him like that, so he merely nods to her before he goes.

He will not break, he _will not_.

He will carry the memory of her palm pressed to his lips with him, and it will be enough.

It _has_ to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at https://nanasalt.tumblr.com/post/622116606774001664/the-memory-of-a-kiss
> 
> You can find my tumblr at pureanonofficial.tumblr.com


End file.
